I am slowly deteriorating.
The world ceases to exist in my head, and hours pass quickly,
Like seconds,
And seconds feel like hours.
I stare blankly at a wall, for these mindless periods of time,
And it does not seem real.
Who says that the life I live serves a specific purpose?
What purpose does my life have if I do not accomplish anything?
These questions have ripped me apart, so I strongly suggest you do not take them to heart.
I am depersonalized,
Insane,
Nothing is right in my head, and I fear my emotions are too fake for people to feed off anymore.
Do I live this way, in a constant confusion, for the rest of my life?
Or will this condition of questioning go away?
I have deteriorated myself,
And caused myself to decay at too young of an age.
It is true,
Curiosity killed the cat, the cat being my brain.

I am a humming bird with a broken wing forming a geometric fall.
I am a conjoined twin with a foot in heaven and one in hell.
I am a geyser spewing out echoes from a stonewall well.
I am an open road stretched for miles paved with a murderous smile.
I am a man with a firm handshake who stands still on top of an earthquake.
I am a visionary man who slipped on fate and fell in love.
I am a preliminary hearing fallen on deaf ears.
I am the contribution to your retribution.
I am a person of depersonalization.
I am a one man army minus one man.
I am the desired taste of orange juice and toothpaste.
I am concentrated concentration.
I am the formation of your imagination.
I am the comma for your introductory clause.
I am the cause for your sudden pause.
I am the spatula that stirs up your anxiety.
I am the reaper who never leaves a clue.
I am the lace that always chokes the shoe.
I am the light that finds its way thru helping the little shrew.
I am the suburban white boy who sings the blues.
I am consistent inconsistency.
I am your assigned tour guide for your expiration exploration.

Sitting on this wooden floor,
Suffering from depersonalization.
Glaring at the forbidden door,
Struggling with the mind’s creation.

It’s harder than you think,
Tuning out silent clamor.
Resting beside me it winks,
That ruthless, steel sledge-hammer.

He begs for me to make a move,
I’m pasted to the ground.
As long as I sit, he won’t approve,
And I will take the cowards crown.

I think for a long time
About my situation
Life is leaving me behind
I must move on, despite my frustration

A change in the air shifts understanding,
As clammy hands wrap around the handle.
Like boiling pasta calmly expanding,
Legs extend, and reunite with sandals.

I walk to the door with newfound sass,
With the hammer, no longer perplexed.
As I look upon it, it’s made of glass,
Guess what I did next.

It's strange how through times of turmoil you discover who belongs in your life.
In that moment, you stop everything you're doing, just to let that one person know,
You love them.
They fight on, and live on, through the inner struggles in their heads,
Struggles some of us who are weaker, would not understand.
She said, "If this is the end, let it be beautiful."
So let it be beautiful,
Because she said so.

The flowers will bloom, when will this child inside me bloom?
The vines have thorns.
Will these thorns keep pricking me?
I can't even really feel them.
Will I heal?
This deflated heart is waiting to be pumped with your love for all the right reasons.
This ain't no treason.
The emptiness in between the walls.
Spaces between my teeth.
Can I just feel again?
Make me feel again.

Explorer of ink smudges and paper cuts,
She pilots her pen along the roads of a page.
With crisscrossed legs, she travels with windswept hair,
Scrawling to him on a route of blue and the red:
"Each moment we are together,
we write a new line of this poem."

He rummages through leaves of paper,
Words scribbled upon the pieces
like freshly fallen snow upon tree branches.
He searches in vain, seeing only her emerald-brown eyes.
Finally, with words at a breakneck speed, he writes:
*"And yet, there will never be verses enough
to encompass the scope of our voyage."

I am a mountain stream,
alive in the midnight sun.
No longer dormant white,
I color the rocks with dappled light
as a keepsake for the magpie and the mountain.
I must run onward
tumbling towards the tree line,
begging rocks to let me pass.

They call me Susitna,
little traveller from the North ridge.
I carry pieces of the mountain Talkeetna,
a gift for my brother, the sea,
named Knik, who sends gilled messengers
speckled silver, white, and red
to welcome me home--
the mountain streaming
to the sea.